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Legends and Songs 

of 

Summertimes 


in 

Washington 





































LEGENDS AND SONGS 

Of 

SUMMERTIMES 


by 

ALMONT BARNES 

Honorary Member of Order of Bolivar , LL.B. 



Brentano, Washington, D. C. 
Sales Agent 
1916 



Flower in the crannied wall. 

I pluck you out of the crannies; 

Hold you here, root and all, in my hand. 

Little flower — but if I could understand 
What you are, root and all, and all in all, 

I should know what God and man is. 

William Ramsey , Smithsonian Report , 1898. 


Copyright by Author, 1916 


TRANSFERRED FROM 
COPYRIGHT OFFICE 



NATIONAL CAPITAL PRESS, INC., WASHINGTON, 0. C. 


NOV 23 1916 


Foreword 


In the course of a life that has now come nearest to 
eighty-two years, the author counts it among his greatest 
gratifications that he has won cordial poetic regards from 
men such as Charles Godfrey Leland, Nathaniel Parker 
Willis, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Alva A. Adee, John Hay, 
Bret Harte, Joaquin Miller, and the old Washington 
Capital under Donn Piatt and Henry Reed, who published 
and paid for very many of these poems, as did the older 
magazines. 

From one of the gifted, but less known occasional poets 
who became a warm friend, it is ventured to quote a 
tribute in the following poetic extract copied from a New 
York Catholic Magazine: 


To a Poet Soldier on His Departure on a 
Mission to South America 

A farewell song to him whose minstrel fingers 
So oft, with master touch, have swept the lyre. 

In whose leonic verse Satyria lingers. 

Subdued and chastened by its classic fire. 

Like War inthralled by Love; a song disdaining 
To mar its vigor with art-limning words; 

Rich in sincerity alone; retaining 

The deep vibrations of the spirit’s chords, 

Whose simple eloquence so well imparts 
The trust and fealty of unchanging hearts. 


3 


4 


Lo! when he sings of war, war’s rushing splendor 
Reforms and thunders down each battle line: 

And when he sings of love, profusely tender, 

It stirs the blood like Eleusinian wine; 

A love pulsating with the strength and passion 

Which claspt the young earth in its warm embrace, 
When men were gods and loved in god-like fashion. 
Ere cold exhaustion chilled the human race; 

Vigor and grace thro’ all his numbers run — 

An eagle’s flight when circling to the sun. 


Yet not for these high themes of song and story 
Do I, with loving fingers, touch the lyre. 

For men have fought who never felt true glory. 

And sung of love who never felt its fire, 

But that, with these rich gifts, he doth inherit 
The higher grace of nature’s true noblesse; 

A heart of antique mold, a gallant spirit; 

Too proud to cringe, too noble to oppress; 

An arm to succor right and smite down wrong; 

These are the motives of my simple song : — - 

For that he burst, as from some narrow prison. 

From creeds to God, from grooves to boundless ways. 
Upborne by innate strength, supremely risen 
Above the level of degenerate days, 

And looked with gen’rous eye o’er all creation. 

Till man seemed but a sorrowing brotherhood. 

With rev’rent hand I pour out this libation, 

Unto the Power that guards both shore and flood. 

For pleasant exile, and for quick return 
To where the altar fires of friendship burn. 

— Michael Scanlan. 


i 


5 


The author’s life work in literature has been mostly 
with prose, after printing two booklets of a hundred pages 
each for private distribution, and one of war songs of a 
thousand copies. Every-day work has produced matter, 
now mostly out of print, on “Commercial Relations, 1876;’’ 
“International Law, Special Cases;” “Administrative 
Organization” inscribed by permission to Senator Geo. F. 
Edmunds; Letters “Along the Caribbean;” “Keeping 
Poultry for Profit” and “Keeping Goats for Profit;” 
“Statistics for Farmers;” the Geographical Volume and 
Annual Reports of the “Surveys West of the One Hun- 
dredth Meridian;” a report on “The Agriculture of South 
America,” etc., attaining in all a circulation of much more 
than a million copies, many of which are on call in the 
principal libraries of the country. Work still advanced 
is “Cotton of the World,” “Bananas,” “Mexico, Agri- 
cultural, Industrial, and Ethical,” and several translations, 
including the just complete one of “Cumbrales” (The 
Heights), an illustrated Spanish novel. An occasional 
rhyme, culminating at present in this little volume, has 
been an emotional effort for over half a century under the 
motto of my manuscript volume, “ The Comfort of the Soul 
is in the Soul” 

I wish to dedicate first, and last, this little book to those 
of my own blood. In the beginning of our lives was the 
Northman and the Norman, Bjorne (or warrior), who was 
in the battle of Hastings, England, in 1066, and who with 
a not unusual change in spelling became in 1199 Sir Lafe 
Barness, the last s being omitted in the next generation; 
and so in succession until a younger son, simply Thomas 
Barnes, colonist of Hartford, Conn., in 1640. He was 
prominent in the Pequot War, and his descendants live 
on land granted to him; until, after all our wars a cemetery 
census of Arlington in 1877 shows more of this name than 


6 


of any other except one, buried there; my grandmother’s 
grandfather, Ethan Allen (the Revolutionary evangelist) 
being buried in Burlington, Vt. This leads to others of 
my name, who rest nearer to floral decoration and to reach. 
The writer while a student chose for his motto the Greek 
assertion, NikSso , and his last daughter, descended on 
her mother’s side through life blood of the Gaillards, and 
Townshends of the tea-party taxes, was assigned for her 
lesson in the Corcoran Art School competition the figure 
of “The Winged Victory” (the Nike) for which she took 
out of a class of thirteen the Gold Medal Prize. Not long 
after, when she almost suddenly died and to her childless 
mother, yearning for something not of earth, there seemed 
no hope, came alone the message, from God knows how 
or where (for we never dealt with the occult at any time) 
the starting question, on handy paper, as if waved from a 
floating plume: 

“Would it comfort you if I gave you my spirit verse?” 
The return to the obvious written reply, was the com- 
forting and celestial answer, unmatched in any verse ever 
yet written except by evolution, known to us; but in 
the same way reserved, as a spirit secret. 

And so returns a Winged Victory, even with the rosary 
of tears. 

And so came to me the memory of my father’s sermon 
when I was but thirteen, on the text: “And there shall be 
no night there;” and the relevant words, afar, from the 
girl my mother called “Sunshine,” “Why, there is no night 
herel ” 


In this dedication, in order “to recognize those things 
requisite and necessary as well for the body as the soul,” 
I would emphasize the fact that over fifty years ago this 


7 


writer published a poem here, entitled “The Washington 
Canawl,” and signed “Mud Lark,” in the sanitary interest 
of the people, especially the children. It began thus: 

“Insatiate Potomac, whose waters rise and fall. 

Thou fillest with thy mud and slime 
Our ancient. Grand Canawl, 

And Dr. Antisell affirm, from testings chemical. 
Thou art not even good manure. 

Thou pauper old Canawl. 

And many picaninies that o’er thy border crawl 
Afford unwelcome ‘subjects’ 

Retrieved from our Canawl;” 

and was followed with his engineering and historical 
statistics, pertinent; and finally by the executive action of 
Gen. Babcock and Gov. Alexander Shepherd, both in 
sympathy in the final regeneration of at least all South 
Washington. The writer had in interest at last ten 
children and twenty grandchildren, etc. These facts are 
still susceptible of proof, and help to account for the bio- 
graphical existence of this foreword which may end in 
the saying — of the Carib Indian of long ago; 

“What matters it if I die in my hammock, old already; 
for the Carib nation is strong, the yam and banana give 
food to my sons, and the royal palm gives them shade, 
and ere he returns to the Spirit the warrior may smoke 
his tobacco.” 


8 


Introit — Woman 

More gracious than the morning, full of light 
And dew, and twitter of awakening birds; 

More tender than the evening, when the bright 
Lights shine in homes which outer darkness girds 
Until the answering lamps in heaven are set; 
More winsome than the low-voiced rivulet 
Mid stones that kissed, release it from its stay 
Reluctant, full of chiding and soft fret; 

Yea, dearer is she to our lives alway, 

Whether we dream by night or strive by day, 

If we remember, or if we forget; 

For loving kindness of her deeds and words 
Feeds our souls strength — is better to us far 
Than best things else indrawn from all things are. 


9 


Legend of Happiness 
Felice 

For days o’er leagues of valley land 
The wide winds blew, in April bland, 
And into annual verdure fanned 
The woods, Felice. 

They blew towards the mountain snow 
Up quiet valleys, broad and low, 

With breath of springtimes long ago 
To me, Felice, 

Until I seemed a farmer lad 
Again, with dreamy joyance glad, 

Or lilting heart, that seldom had 
Heartache, Felice. 

Beneath the great old apple trees, 
Wooed by the sunshine and the breeze, 
’Neath skies with white sailed argosies 
Of cloud, Felice, 

I drew long breaths of balmy air 
Deep in my breast, and everywhere 
Looked and beheld, of all things fair, 
You most, Felice. 


10 


Was it the Spring, with liquid tongue 
Of minstrel brooks, to music strung, 

Or was it thought, that made me young, 
Of you, Felice? 

What was it? — for until you came, 

And with you Spring, all years the same 
Had seemed to me. I could not name 
A year, Felice, 

That bore the rubric sign till then. 

All had been as they might have been 
Had I been alien among men 
Till then, Felice, 

Love seemed unreal, or afar — 

Light speculative from a star 
Unknown, with power me to mar 
Nor make, Felice, 

Yet some strange yearning made unrest 
For me forever. Uncaressed 
Was one with grace to make me blest. 
Somewhere, Felice; 

To break through my life’s monotone 
With concords finer than are blown 
Through silver bugles, when a throne 
Is filled, Felice, 


11 


First by some happy maiden queen, 
Meanwhile a nation’s joy has been 
Interpreted in music keen 
And sweet, Felice. 

Robins 

There’s a robin singing in the old elm, yonder — 
Don’t you hear his song? — 

Where the brook goes glancing gaily under, 

With a gypsy, tell-tale tongue; 

The brook, that prattles, and gleams, and gushes 
Along, for a little time, 

And then with a flash down the mill-race rushes, 
Roaring a watery chime. 

There’s a robin singing in the old elm, yonder — 
Hark to what he says! 

There’ll a change come soon, and I shouldn’t 
wonder 

If violets bloomed, now-a-days. 

For the lambs lie out on the sunny hillside, 

Like spots of latest snow; 

And the village girls, how they laugh by the rill- 
side, 

Where the golden Adder’s-tongues blow! 

There’s a robin singing in the old elm, yonder — 
Singing a double tune. 

Do you see his mate, by the brook-bank, under? 
Their nest will be full in June! 


What romance, or memory of romances, 

Flits by with each eager wing — 

And there’s more in the robin’s song, one fancies 
More than we hear him sing! 


The bland winds warm and wider blew 
Up the long valleys. Through and through 
The woods awoke. The earth anew 
With life, Felice, 

Was glorified. My pulses stirred 
In concord with the things unheard, 

That make the music without word 
Or sound, Felice, 

But find in bud and bloom a voice 
Interpreting their meanings choice, 

Whereat all things that live rejoice 
To live, Felice. 

I pruned my orchard, over rife 
With leaf and bloom. The busy knife 
Directed into fruitier life 
Its growth, Felice; 

And spray by spray, decked vernal green, 
Fell and was gathered, while the sheen 
Of new bloom shone the leaves between, 
Fair flowered, Felice; 







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13 


And while I toiled you lingered there, 
Straw hatted, with wind tangled hair, 
Long, loose and brown, but golden where 
Sun touched, Felice; 

With eyes like glints of summer skies 
That roofed the home in Paradise, 

What time its inmates first grew wise 
To sin, Felice — 

Nay, like the unfathomable sheen 
Of lakes at noon, limpid, serene, 

Blue most, with amber tint now seen, 
Now lost, Felice; 

With ripe lips neither full nor thin, 

Smile parting over gleams within, 

Above a full, round perfect chin, 

And throat, Felice, 

Turned without fault to meet your breast 
That, like a meaning half expressed, 
Made lovable your tapering vest, 

Lace edged, Felice. 

And by your simple, exquisite 
Light summer robe a glimpse of feet, 
Curves of your form — you, you complete, 
Revealed, Felice, 


14 


Yet hidden were. And lo, your words 
To me were like the notes of birds 
Half frightened, and then afterwards 
Full songed, Felice. 

A sylvan nymph upon your throne, 

Pan given, conscious though of none 
Of your rare loveliness, alone, 

And sway, Felice, 

You sat where three great limbs spread wide 
From one gnarled tree bole, half aside 
Reclining, your blue scarf untied 
And spread, Felice, 

Upon your lap, and full of bloom 
Of apple blossoms, with perfume 
Around you, and warm light to illume, 
Crown you, Felice; 

And never since I knew the light 
Had I beheld so fair, so bright 
A vision. With the fateful might 
Of love, Felice, 

My being thrilled. The immortal pain 
Without which all lives live in vain, 

Missing its trouble and its gain, 

Was mine, Felice. 


15 


Tibi, Dulci Meae 

Oh, thou, touched with the shadow of some sorrow 
Of years less fair than years of thine should be, 
Believe that life hath yet a fair tomorrow 
Of happiness for thee. 

He spreads, and not in vain, thy way before thee, 
Who giveth others in thy being bliss, 

That so a human pity bendeth o’er thee — 

Some one doth greet or miss. 

And lo, around thee, how the year rejoices, 

And triumphs, with feet scornful of decay, 
While earth and air are full of happy voices 
To cheer thee on thy way. 

For thee there lingers in the air a fragrance; 

To thee the gracious summer eves belong; 
Thee the brown brooks, those careless minstrel 
vagrants, 

Allure with dance and song. 

For thee the lilies bloom. For thee light lingers 
On shores and dreamy vistas of the sea, 

And sunset with soft, delicate, bright fingers 
Makes many a crown for thee. 

And if doubt comes again, and far and lonely 
Across thy way the shadows seem to fall, 
Remember with some joy who holds thee only 
The best beloved of all! 


16 


Fair vision of a springtime fled! 

The orioles lighten overhead 
Among the leaves; the robins wed 
And build, Felice, 

Alow in the old apple trees; 

The fresh grass rustles at my knees; 

From yielding blossoms ardent bees 
Draw sweets, Felice; 

The lark soars through the cloudless sky ; 
The breeze, scent laden, lazies by; 

All seems as all seemed; only I, 

Alone, Felice, 

Toil since the days with you, while heat 
Browns my strong hands, my face; but sweet 
And low your name I call, repeat: 

Felice! Felice! 


Refrain 

Changing like life’s sea and restless as waves of 
the sea, 

Is this restless desolate heart, this human heart of 
me — 

Full of a mighty yearning of passionate tenderness 
For one now unreturning form, and the gentle love 


caress 


FELICE 








17 


Of one dear hand. O Lady, ever to me fair, 

My thoughts go out to meet you and find you 
everywhere! 

Find and greet you joyfully, glad in the very grief 

That throbs in them, as waves throb and fall on 
a hidden reef. 

O to be with you if even under life’s bitter sea, 

Holding you forever fast, unwon Felicity, — 

Holding you pressed close for aye, each with each 
intwined, 

The weltering waters dim above, the wailing of the 
wind 

And every troublous sound shut out, onward 
ceaseless to fare, 

With only we twain dreaming alone, ’neath the 
shimmering seabows there, 

Dreaming a long and gentle dream, forgot by tears 
and pain, 

Your face as bright as the face of flow’rs, uplifted, 
after rain! 


18 


Magnolia Grandiflora 

The Summer bridelike comes, with trailing bloom. 
Her soft warm breath, love rich with they per- 
fume, 

Makes tropic-scented languor in my room, 

Magnolia. 

Remembrance of thee hath been with me still 
In brown of Autumn and the Winter chill, 

Until, Spring passing, June days with thee fill, 

Magnolia. 

Slow grew the glossy green into thy dress, 

That curtains half way from watchfulness 
Thy swelling whiteness, which but winds caress. 

Magnolia. 

Loth to unfold thy rich excess of grace, 

Luxurious queenliness came to thy face 
As though it had in flowers no other place. 

Magnolia. 

Thine odor, clinging like love’s clinging kiss. 
Voiceless proclaims thy apotheosis. 

Thy glorious bloom sufficient language is, 

Magnolia. 

Thee watching, golden hearted as the day 
I see thee slowly come, to briefly stay, 

And feel perfection leaves few words to say. 

Magnolia. 


19 


I mind me of a Maiden, beauty whole 

For that brief time her summer o’er her stole — 

But our poor bloom is fretted with a soul, 

Magnolia. 

Well if, her mission o’er, no more she be, 

But shed her creamy lilies monthed with thee, 
And leaves while gone a sweet white memory, 

Magnolia. 

The roses with their thorns, when thou art dead, 
Will meet the later days with bloom unshed; 

But none shall be like thee remembered. 

Magnolia. 


20 


Trilogy of Summer 
Midday 

The Sun had caught 
His shadow — naught 
But sense of heat pervaded thought. 

Each juicy plant, 

Of life-wine scant, 

Drooped fainting, with a death ward slant; 

Nor fowl nor bird 
Gave song nor word — 

Each trailed its plumes and was not heard; 

Alone, it seems, 

From steely gleams, 

Swift silent swallows skimmed the streams; 

The trees stood still — 

O’er vale and hill 
The sultry Summer had its will, 

And held in thrall 
With smothering pall 
Life, as for life’s own funeral. 

Through meadows, slow 
The river’s flow 

Glid shimmering out of long ago, 


21 


To shade its shine 
’Neath elms benign 

Where, udder deep, dreamed drowsy kine — 

Then, urged by thrill 
Of wayward will, 

Fell sounding underneath the mill, 

To issue white 
Again to light, 

In foamy frolic as of flight. 

Westward, and high 
Into the sky 

Dark clouds were drifting sullenly, 

While lordlier, led 
To statelier tread, 

Moved the majestic thunder head. 

The air grew tense 
In the suspense 
Of an expectant indolence; 

Far sounds drew near, 

Till one might hear 
Their airy footfalls at his ear, 

While more remote 
Became the note, 

Flung, like coined silver, from the throat 


22 


In round halloo, 

That fainter grew 
While widening in the hazy blue. 

To be returned, 

An echo, spurned 

To where the vacant silence yearned. 

The Tempest 

Then roared a wind; 

And close behind 

The face and eyes of heaven grew blind 

Though blotted woods, 

In interludes, 

Revealed to lightnings solitudes 

That quivered back 
From thunder-crack, 

Extinguished in a deeper black; 

And storm-smit pines 
In struggling lines 

Hoarse roared along their Apennines, 

As through them, shed 
From overhead, 

The rivery rain-reek rioted; 


23 


And hurrying clouds 
In huddling crowds 

Fled, tatters fraying from their shrouds. 

While flash, and roar, 

And fierce downpour, 

Made earth the tempest’s threshing floor. 


The Rainbow 

The rain rained by — 

The storm’s last sigh 
Ceased like an ended litany. 

Cloud-tangled trees 
Left to the breeze 
Their ragged remnant legacies 

Of lingering mist, 

Released, sun-kissed 
To vague and vapory amethyst. 

Westward, the sky 
Cleared cheerily, 

A bluer brightness in its eye. 

While eastward gone 
The clouds rolled on, 
Grumbling along the horizon. 


24 


But life found wings, 

With twitterings, 

And, hark! — the home-near robin sings! 

And goldenly, 

Clear, measured, free, 

The forest thrush’s minstrelsy 

Gave to the wood 
Its vocal mood, 

And cheered the soul of solitude. 

And everywhere 
The freshened air 

Bore blessedness of answered prayer; 

Earth’s human brood 
From plenitude 

Of shelter out to Nature stood, 

And hopefully 
Across the sky 

Heaven’s sun kissed rainbowed earth good-bye. 


25 


Whippoorwill 

In the silent southern night, 

While the stars are softly bright, 
Drawn to lights of quiet homes 
Then the simple singer comes : 
Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill! 

All the nights with music thrill; 
Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill! 
Till the dawn comes, singing still. 

On the porch the household sits 
Silent, as the singer flits 
Nearer, nearer, bush by bush. 
Pouring through the evening hush: 
Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill! 

All the nights with music thrill; 
Whippoorwill ! Whippoorwill ! 
Till the dawn comes, singing still. 

Even through her happy dreams 
Come the flitting music gleams 
To the maiden, slumbering sweet — 
Dream and music mingling meet — 
Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill! 

All the nights with music thrill; 
Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill! 
Till the dawn comes, singing still. 


26 


Home’s own minstrel of the night, 
Ere the busy day grows bright 
Like a spirit thus hast flown, 
Leaving but a word and tone: 
Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill! 
Homely sounds are dearest still; 
Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill! 
Simplest words the deepest thrill. 


Legend of the Adirondacks 

The waves have a mirror-like brightness, 
And over them leaning, long grasses 
With wild flowers scantily sprinkled, 
Bend low by the edge of the stream; 
As here in the wild Adirondacks, 

In days that have faded unnumbered, 

So leaning some fair Indian maid saw 
Herself, by two heavens orbed in. 


And statelily lithe, strong and supple 
To bend to the breeze but to battle 
The storm and the winter, great elm trees 
Spread over the water and shore; 

Till grasses, and flowers, and forest 
And sky, both above and below us, 
Appear a twin vision with only 
The film of the river between. 

Come so to me life, without sorrow 
Or care, more than that of the ripple 
That wrinkles to laughter the river 
Kissed hard by the amorous wind, 

And bring me content, and assurance 
Sufficient that living hereafter 
Will be a fair reflex of only 

The scenes lost regretfully here. 


28 


Row gently, O brawny armed oarsman. 

While cool waters gurgle behind us. 

And pearls scatter fast from the oars, in 
Munificence princely and large, 

For time, and this forest, these waters, 

The blue of the sky, all we gather 
To vision and sense, they are ours — let 
Us lose them no more than we must! 

Thus thought I or murmured, while gliding 
With Chase and his son and Sebattis, 

And hounds, crouching low in the boats, with 
Their heads on the stretch of their paws; 
Deep chested, lean flanked, thorough blooded, 
With ears that a child loves to fondle, 

And moist noses twitching impatient 
To follow the slot of a deer. 

I sat in the stern with a paddle: 

Before me the Indian, Sebattis, 

Was rowing and reticent; red sleeves 
Rolled up on his sinewy arms 
To the elbows, showed muscles deep bronzed, 
The color of pocket worn copper; 

A stoical son of a race that 
Goes down to the sunrise of ours. 

As one in a forest is silent 
In presence of Eld, where the hoary 
Pines whisper in heaven o’er boulders 
That glaciers have moved in their might, 


29 


So hesitates speech in the presence 
Of those behind whom are a vista 
Of ruin, and legends remoter 
Than guesses or history grope. 

From boyhood full well I remember 
That oldest of men, Captain Peter; 

Or oldest to me, he had been in 
Our far revolution a guide; 

My pride that for sixpence in whiskey 
At Starks’s he told me his story; 

And he was a hundred and thirty : 
Sebattis, my guide, was his son. 

If “silence is golden,” and language 
But silver, I thought, as we sat there, 

Tis better to have specie payment, 
Although in a silvery way; 

And thinking the bronze hued Sebattis 
Inherited traits from his father, 

I quietly drew and presented 
A flask in a willow wove case. 

The stoical look did not vanish, 

At least from his face; but his black eyes 
A scintillant twinkle shot quickly, 

And then the two oars with one hand 
Were held horizontal and dripping, 

While one hand extended, and upward 
A face turned— but slow said the Indian : 
“I guess I had better not drink!” 


30 


Then swifter we sped on the river, 

The dogs sitting up with an inkling 
That dullness was dead, and the sporting 
About for themselves to begin; 

Till glowing and sweaty we rounded 
A point, through great lily pads swishing, 
And fair Preston Pond lay before us, 

With somewhere our victim, a deer. 

Green hills stretched afar from the lakelet, 
Indenting with undulant headlands 
Its waters, so clear that the golden 
Pale sands on the bottom were seen. 

On the north shore we loosened old Lion, 
The hero of many a deer hunt, 

A tawny and rheumy old hound, one 

That whined in his dreams for the chase; 

And Sport, young and spotted and eager, 
That scarcely could govern his instinct 
A hare to avoid for the cloven 
Sharp track of a fleet fleeing deer; 

While Lion, when once he had scented 
The high-headed game and the nobler, 

Not rivers nor darkness could baffle 
Nor age, to be in at the death! 

These followed at heel to the hilltop 
Wise Chase, rifle-armed, while Sebattis 
With rifle and boat sought the headland 
That, dominant, boldened the west; 


31 


And John, in the other boat seated 
With me, rowed across to the south shore, 
Where lightly we beached the boat, hidden 
From sight, and so waited for sport. 

Then silence came. Early September 
Had tempered the air to give subtle, 
Sufficient delight, such as one knows 
Who quenches a moderate thirst 
With an orange plucked ripe in Bahia. 

The white birches, opposite, silvered 
The water, reflected, like urchins 
Nude, floating atoy with the tide. 

A humble-bee droned through the stillness, 
And left on the mind an impression 
That she was the busiest-blundering. 

And grumbling fire-eater out; 

And near, without fear, but with question 
Of look and of head-poise, a titmouse 
Soft twittered, as asking what ever 

Such wingless crude monsters did there. 

And over a far summit, floating 
With steady, sustained, slow gyrations, 

As if he were weaving an unseen 
Tiara up high in the air, 

To drop on the brow of the mountain 
And crown it in heaven immortal, 

An eagle soared higher and higher 
Till lost in the infinite sky. 


32 


And sleep came to woo us as gently 
As pollen is shaken from flowers 
By brushing of butterfly wings, or 
A meddlesome midsummer breeze — 

Sleep fanned by the nervous-leaved aspens, 

In shade of the patienter spruces, 

That breathe intermittently, tired with 
Monotony dark, and of life. 

Then deep, from remote, through the stillness, 
Dispelling our gossamer slumber, 

From far, and away like a bugle 
Heard sudden and fierce in a war, 

Came single and double cantations 
From the hot throats of Sport and old Lion, 

And John and Sebattis and I seized 
Our rifles, alert and athrill. 

Swift banished were fancies from dreamland; 

I heard not the aspens that quivered 
Above; but again and again heard, 

Hear ever that glorious cry 
Of dogs; while afar through the forest, 

Alone, and with echoless footsteps 
Fled Silence, the timorous, lonely, 

Mute, sad elder sister of Sound. 

And near and yet nearer the baying 
Came down from the hills through the valley, 
Till deer and dogs broke the bruised thicket 
And smote like a storm the bright waves. 


The chase through the forest was ended, 

And hushed was the chase’s wild cadence, 

The deep-throated musical baying 
Of eager and slavering hounds. 

* * * * * * * 

Then when the still night brooded round us, 

And star points gleamed faint o’er the water, 

And boldly the camp-fire made pictures 
That faded in weirdness and gloom, 

And chase-song and story were ended, 

We slept upon odorous pillows, 

With hounds baying deer through the dreamings 
That fled at the cool kiss of Morn. 


34 


Eagles 

The bird from which I drew my gray old pen 
Hath battled with the storm- winds of the north, 
And when from lairs of cloud leaped lightnings 
forth, 

Hath soared away, triumphant, o’er the plain : 

Unscathed, wide lakes and rivers journeying o’er, 
And rugged hills that skirt peace-dreaming vales, 
Hath soared away to where the ocean gales 

Baptise with spray the storm-beat granite shore. 

Free through free air it circled, strong and bold, 
Beat back the buffetings of gusty rain, 

Until it caught the rainbow’s fleeting stain, 

Where far the banners of the storm unrolled. 

And when it paused a moment from its flight 
To dress its plumage, on some lifty pine 
Whose roots in ribs of rough rock intertwine, 

It rested, proudly conscious of its might. 

But death will pluck the eagles from the sky! 

So this hath fallen; and I but save a pen 
Wherewith to write this record unto men. 

Thus highest thoughts come back to earth, to die! 

Albeit, some plume of them, in otherwise 

Than that which first, untamably, they knew, 
May serve to trace, in letters feebly true. 

The themes which bear us nearer to the skies. 


35 


A Legend of Evolution 

Ages ago, in times you have forgotten 
And I do not remember, though I know 
That what I say is said as if bethought in 
A post-prophetic glow; 

In that time when no foot of human being 
Trod where we wander, but deep forest shade 
Of fern and palm, with tempests disagreeing, 
Complaining, gloomed the glade; 

When all the earth was very prehistoric, 

And good and evil rudimental were, 

And sextons could not say, “Alas, poor Yorick!” 
Sexton nor skull being there; 

Then you were born, a sleek-haired panther kitten, 
With graceful limbs, and pinky pearly paws, 
And sharp, white, separate teeth. (Have you not 
bitten 

Hard since, and shown your claws?) 

Deep in your eyes a changeful color glistened : 

Sometimes it was as if a diamond flamed; 

And sometimes, when you dreamed, or purred, or 
listened, 

The light grew softer, tamed. 


36 


You slept upon a couch low-made and mossy, 

Or silent-footed on the ledges stepped, 

Played with your mates, tawny of hair and glossy, 
Or suckled, stretched, and slept. 

Naught but the fierce-faced sun filled you with 
wonder 

In pauses of the times you dreamed or played, — 
Only the sudden shudder of the thunder 
Could drive you home afraid. 

These were the lessons of your feline Sunday 
Enforced upon you in your native vale. 

But you had little care — you could, on Monday, 
Spin ’round and catch your tail. 

And so you grew, half cared-for half neglected, 

As one at this late day may safely guess, 

Till you became a felinely-respected 
Handsome young pantheress. 

’Twas then I met you first — for I am dated 
Back in the ages several centuries, 

And predatory roamed, often belated, 

’Neath your ancestral trees. 

Don’t you remember how I came a-wooing — 

A panther of a large and sturdy race? 

I better guess what first you thought of doing, 
Reading your later face. 


37 


From a far hill, in speech since grown more human, 
I called to you, and in the native tongue 
You answered with a cry like that of woman. 
Then on a rock you clung 

And waited. On I came, bounding and cat-like, 
And paused below you by the mossy hill, 

And you — you got your back up. (Is not that 
like 

What you keep doing, still ?) 

I kissed my hand — no, licked my paw — and 
purring 

Until the sound made music ’mid the trees 
(One now might think it like a millstone’s whirring, 
Heard on a fitful breeze), 

I introduced myself in primal fashion, 

And “bowed and scraped” as a male panther 
can; 

Regretted my intrusion wrought your passion, 

(I reasoned like — a man!) 

But did you answer, to my call replying ? 

I thought you did, that I was doing right. 

You said you didn’t (Oh the sinless lying!) 

See things in just that light. 


38 


I had forgot myself — I was assuming — 

You growled, or words something to that effect. 
“But I remembered you — was that presuming? 

I meant no disrespect.” 

Now in my answer, happy, unexpected, 

There was so delicate direct a compliment 
That you, not to seem too unjust, reflected — 
Which meant you could relent! 

Ah, I knew not you never while you sat there 
Had angry been; but that instead of this 
You sat, claws drawn, teeth hid, a forest cat, 
there, 

Aching to hug and kiss! 

All this was long ago. An old-world story 
It seems to me, unquiet, sitting here 
While moonlight through the clouds makes mellow 
glory, 

And you are — pretty dear; 

But mingled with abundant human graces, 

Something of that wild life shines threateningly 
Out of your eyes, comes springing in your paces 
Turns swift and sharp on me, 

Until I, panther-like, feel my teeth glitter. 

My breath come hot, my pulses pounding brave 
As war drums. For such wooing which is fitter, 
A boudoir or a cave? 


39 


Ten Minutes More 

I’ll stay with thee ten minutes more, 

And then, my girl, I must away. 

Love’s vigil surely should be o’er 
When night is beckoning on the day. 

I drew her hand within my own, 

Kissed her good-night, turned to the door: 
She asked me, “What, so soon art gone? 

O stay with me ten minutes more!” 

Ten minutes more — who kept the time ? 

Not those who gave kept kisses sure; 

While kiss and time made pretty chime, 

As if each would the other lure. 

But when the clock half pettishly 

Hurried the hour — ’twas scarcely four — 

I left her while she tried to say 

“Would you could stay ten minutes more!” 


40 


Cloistral with Nature 

Delicious coolness of the air! 

Primeval solitude! 

I here quaff nectar springs prepare, 
Streams smuggle through the wood. 
I lie against the willing ease 
Of this old friendly tree, 

And dream to wordless symphonies 
The breezes croon to me. 

Care left me at this forest edge 
To Nature, and my heart. 

Long hindered of the privilege, 

I gain my birthright part. 

I hail my free friend flashing by, 

Full of a summer soul, 

That meteor of a leafy sky 
The flame-bright oriole. 

My coming stilled the little sounds 
Which lull this drowsy glen — 

As one Arachne’s weaving wounds, 
That is renewed again — 

But now I hear the tender coo 
Of turtles, newly met, 

And the cicada, hid, renew 
Its zingaro castanet. 


41 


The bombus makes a bagpipe drone 
In her impatient flight, 

Yet breaks at any time the tone 
To suddenly alight, 

And bury with a busy joy 
Her head, in honey quest, 

As does his face an unweaned boy 
Within the offered breast. 


The saucy squirrel scuds away 
And up some stately tree, 

Then makes a questioning survey 
From his safe height, of me; 

Or, prompted by the reasons old 
That move the subtle brute, 
Shells kernels for the winter cold 
From even squamous fruit; 


Or with the pine nut in his paws 
He chatters and he jeers — 

Until his neighbors send applause — 

At me, less than his peers; 

Provokes approach, and laughs to scorn 
The impotence of size 
That starves upon his wealth of corn, 
And stumbles while he flies. 


42 


On bed of moss, with resting eyes 
And blessed by wooing air, 

I dream into the summer skies 
So fathomless and fair, 

On clouds that gently veer and float 
Far through their heavenly seas, 

Not from earth’s troubles less remote, 
Nor freighted with less peace: 

Only, that I no more return 
Where waits for me my care, 

But in eternal summer earn 
Its needlessness of pray’r; 

Lie hugged to Nature’s nurturing breast, 
To partings unbeguiled 
Which sever, from united rest, 

That mother and her child! 


43 


The Seers 

Dream, muse, write, 

In the dim and lonely night, 

Till dawning comes with prophetic ray 
Ahead of the world-wide day. 

From darkness into light 
They give to other men 
The imaginings, and strange wise things 
That haunt them now and then. 


They shrink to show their thought 
To those not swift to feel; 

For dew and light from heaven brought 
Are rust to polished steel. 

Men care not where is sought 
Their strange and wondrous lore, 

So they find a home where these seldom come, 
And tread its echoing floor. 

Truths greet them mutely there — 

What though they be bitter sometime? 

There is food in the uncreated air, 

And their steps have a musical chime; 

And winds blow bland and fair, 

Caressing brow and cheek, 

While heaven and earth crowd ’round their hearth, 
Compelling them to speak. 


44 


They lead the van of men 

Through mists that border time — 

They pioneers, find where and when 
The future and past shall rhyme. 

And though past and future, they ken, 

Make rainbows overhead, 

Which they show to you, you scarce say “True!” 
Ere the souls of the seers have fled. 


45 


A Legend of Homes 
Men greet you on your century-tilled soil 
With old good will, as even now I greet. 
Hallowed to you be all the care and toil 
That sanctify the sod beneath your feet. 

With honest hands, clean hearts, and useful lives 
Your sires through years of this closed century 
Have tilled this ground. Still mated to their wives 
They rest in peace. How better could it be? 


But ah! the ancient vista for your eyes, 

As through the long-drawn century you gaze, 
From consummations of toil’s phophecies 
To toil’s prophetic morning. In the haze 
Of those far days your blood was pioneer; 

Some vim in your hand smote the forest low, 
And smoothed the plain, till year by sunny year 
Home grew into and out of your blood’s flow — 


The blood of your race homing in this earth, 

And grafting Freedom upon Law for root, 

And founding in the wilderness a hearth 
And roof -tree sheltering immortal fruit. 

An Age, and Opportunity produce 
So pile and portico of templed fame, 

Till slowly thus is heralded the use 

To men from deeds that grow around a Name. 


46 


Your acres broad — what memories they hold, 
Unseen to eyes not of the spirit born, 

Till all their sands gleam with affection’s gold, 
And there is halo on the tasseling corn. 

And sounds subdued, heard in the twilight dim, 
That from some unseen Where unbidden come, 
Are they the souls of evening pray’r or hymn? — 
For nothing nearer heaven may be than Home. 

And nearest, that for which our fathers toiled, 
Wherein our mothers crooned us to our rest; 
Which we returning seek, world-battle-soiled, 

As the sure shelter of a nurturing breast. 

Our feet in footprints press freshly removed 
Of our own lineage and cherished race: 

To live, to die, homed so with those we loved 
Is still to hold in Time our dwelling place. 

Who loves not well the earth, earth loves him not, 
Who loves her, she will nourish that he grow. 
Man still is Nature’s child, to earth begot; 

And life is vainest to the herd that know 
Not this their mother. This the lesson is 
Taught by home-rooted generation long 
And history plumes the names and memories 
Of toil-nursed sons of statecraft and of song. 


47 


“Co’ Bossie” 

While soft the summer twilight falls. 

Ere yet the westering light is hid, 

Or in near trees the hyla calls, 

Or starts its twit the katydid, 

The slow-paced heavy-uddered kine 
Move homeward at the milkmaid’s cry, 
By devious path in crooked line. 

Brindle and Spot, 

Dimple and Dot, 

And petted silken-coated Floss, 

Each knows the voice that calls and why! 
“Co’ bos! Co’ bossie! Co’ bos!” 

How memory takes us back to homes, 

Some alien but to memory now, 

When soft the summer evening comes 
And far we hear the lowing cow 
And see the herd wind down the lane, 
Responsive to the well-known call 
That brings it to be milked again. 

Brindle and Spot, 

Dimple and Dot, 

And venturous, roaming, frisky Floss 
Snatching the wheat ears o’er the wall — 
“Co’ bos! Co’ bossie! Co’ bos!” 


48 


Perhaps we knew the milkmaid then. 

One sweet as God makes farmer’s girls; 

With gentle, helpful ways, and ken 
Of only thoughts as pure as pearls. 

Her gift and smile made water wine; 

Her handiwork changed milk to gold; 

And ne’er was music more divine, 

Brindle and Spot, 

Dimple and Dot, 

And fawn-eyed, free, familiar Floss, 

Than was her call to you, of old : 

“Co’ bos! Co’ bossie! Co’ bos!” 

Loved rural scenes of farm and fields 
Which retrospective thought recalls, 

The different present to you yields 
Its twilight of memorial halls, 

Till half in dream, and half in truth, 

The simpler life the country lives 

Restores at times our vanished youth. 
Brindle and Spot, 

Dimple and Dot, 

Come home at milking-time with Floss, 
And some lost voice the old call gives: 

“Co’ bos! Co’ bossie! Co’ bos!” 




PHONOGRAPH OF FAIRY EARTH DWARF 


49 


The Legend of Undine 

I know now thy secret of birth: 

Blue waves were the sky of thy earth. 

No cottage nor vine-portaled grot 
Bloomed blither that thou wast begot. 
Amphitrite went back to the sea 
To Neptune, thy mother to be, 

And left in thy change-lighted eyes 
A hint of the sea-mirrored skies; 

And left in thy body’s pure white 
The color of foam in the light; 

And left in thy ways and thy moods 
The reach and return of the floods; 

And gave to thee shallows and deeps 
Of floods of the tides and the neaps : 

For, love, lights and darks of the sea 
Are shown and are hidden in thee; 

And phosphoric sparkles and gleams. 

And Heaven has slept in thy dreams; 

And from thy white feet to thy hair 
The form of thy body is fair. 

Thy mother, the heard-of of eld, 

Hath thee to her white bosom held 
While thou drankest nutriment meet, 
The wine that yet maketh thee sweet 
Who’s warmth is abroad in thy veins, 
When through thee thy fair mother reigns. 


50 


But if this thy food be forgot. 

And I pray, for my peace, it be not. 
Then through thy smooth arteries creep 
Such bitters as lurk in the deep : 

Such moods are thine harder to know 
Than water; such sinister flow 
As slides in the waves when the face 
Of the sea is unloved of its place, 

Before it arise to o’er whelm 
The ship, despite compass or helm: 
For, love, darks and lights of the sea 
Are shown and are hidden in thee; 

Yet, from thy bright hair to thy feet 
The bloom of thy body is sweet. 

Then, love, if there shineth in thee 
Soft light, as the moon’s on the sea, 

If restlessness be in thy moods 
Like reach and return of the floods; 

If cloud be upon thee or clear, 

Still art thou, O lady, most dear! 

Still am I thy lover, my love, 
Whatever the moods be that move 
Thy beautiful body and soul, 

For I love not a part, but the whole. 

As the mariner leaves not the sea 
Though it cherish or wreck him, in me 
Such constancy needs must remain, 
Though yielding me pleasure or pain; 


51 


Such love for thee in me abides 
As bridegrooms bring first to their brides; 
For to me, from head crown to feet, 

Thy soul and thy body are sweet — 

From white feet to gold-glinted hair 
Thy soul and thy body are fair. 

And so what is wild in my blood 
Thou mayst the best turn to good, 

And what of the best in me lies 
Is better for light of thine eyes. 

And since I have learned from the floods 
The rest and the change of thy moods, 

And know, as the mariner knows 
The ebbs of the tides and the flows, 

The secrets that hide in thy blood 
As riches are hid in the flood; 

And knowing, the deeper am moved 
To call thee my only beloved; 

Then must I be, body and soul, 

So knowing, forever thy whole 
Loved lover, as thou unto me, 

Till the day of all darkness shall be, 

She who rose, clad in light, from the sea. 


On the Caribbean Sea, 1870. 


52 


Good Bye 

Good bye! We have met in the blossoming 
spring, 

While flowers were opening brightly; 

While birds their wild jubilates would sing 

From the boughs in the breeze swaying lightly. 
We have met when to meet was as sweet as the 
pain 

Of our parting is cruel. There lingers 
Within me forever the wish that is vain, 

And the thrill of the touch of your fingers. 

Good bye! We have met when our hearts like 
the spring 

Were rich with each generous feeling; 

When we were too full of the gifts life can bring 
To speak without too much revealing. 

Each life has its springtime, each year has its 
May — 

O that ever is blighted a blossom; 

Or a heart song grown fainter goes dying away, 
To a memory, cold in the bosom! 


53 


Legend of Abner’s 
Early I rose, unsummoned by the clock, 

What time I heard the cheery crowing cock 
Salute shrill voiced the drowsy stirring morn, 
Unknowing of the Peter once foresworn 
In many-walled Jerusalem afar, 

When, ’neath the glimmer of the early star, 

In days long past, while wrangling at an inn, 
Amid the clack of tongues and kettle din, 

A fisherman denied fealty or ken 
Concerning one, ‘‘the first of gentlemen 
Early I rose to greet the coming dawn. 

Maiden of Time most fair to look upon, 

Who, night pursuing, day pursued, but coy, 
Smiles rosily in undiminished joy 
As silently her circling dance is whirled 
In glimmering gladness ’round the wakening 
world. 

To meet the dawn, the fleeting dawn, arose 
I from my peaceful sumptuous repose 
Upon a couch set on carved lion’s claws, 

With carven head and foot; whereon, because 
The turbaned, ebon-shining handmaiden, 

Who, silent, cares within the homes of men, 

Had piled the soft thick mattresses full well, 
Whereover smooth clean snowy linen fell, 

And spread thereon the flowered counterpane, 
And beat the downy pillows not in vain, 


54 


I sleep and dream, in peaceful silence laid, 
Alone, unchid, uncaudled, undismayed. 

To greet the dawn! And yet, not that alone 
Claimed all my care; for then, ablutions done, 

I drew my well prized raiment o’er my form, 
Less to adorn than needfully keep warm, 

And from a choice array took one smooth cane 
That grew beside the sunny western main, 

Where golden girdled California waits 
The equal destiny of sister States, 

And sought the quiet streets, deserted yet 
By busy men who must their toil forget 

At times, and on the brows where care has prest 
Its dreaded seal, let the soft hand of rest 
Smooth back the wrinkles for a little space; 

And owing well libation to the grace 

And goodness of those all-preserving ones 
Presiding over life, great Saturn’s sons, 

Somnus of Night, Apollo of the Day, 

Who watch o’er mortals whereso be their way; 
Remembering well their still extended care 
I onward wandered cheerfully to where 
A temple high* well lifts its goodly pride, 

Wide windowed, on the oriental side 

Of the broad highway; and there entering 
I saw, as in the palace of a king, 


Formerly “Abner’s” on 9th St. 


55 


Tall mirrors wide set in carved ebony, 

And crystal slim-necked urns, most fair to see, 
And onward going spied a statelier room 
Through the translucent roof whereof the bloom 
Of morning blushed adown upon tiled floors, 
Wherein a fountain, centered, ceaseless pours 
A tinkling liquid music; and on high, 

Whereto the walls the well-turned beams are 
nigh 

That the bright ceiling hold, faces of mirth 
Smiled and made mimic to the sons of earth — 
Carved gargoyle faces, stealing dismal care 
With sermons of a look from anywhere 
Within the heart of man. And lo! away 
Beyond the central fountain’s rainy spray, 

Across one side of that high cheery room 
The pictured Rhenish river ran, through bloom 
And crowned with sun-kissed castles; but afar 
River and realm were lost in golden air. 

This seeing after quiet entering, 

I caused a Teuton fair a cup to bring 
For my libation filled: The lucent sweet 
Of Indian islands pungent bitters meet 
Of Angostura, on the tropic stream; 

A golden citrous globe, fragrant, I deem. 

With care thereto contributes a thin rind; 

And these being with the clear juice combined 


56 


From Ceres’ golden plumed gift expressed, — 
Boon to the world, discovered in its west, — 

And therewith crystal cubes (formed when the 
days 

Eke from the sun his twice-reluctant rays, 

To bind in silence the slow moving streams 
O’er which the steel of ruddy skaters gleams). 
Add these, O youth! to make the nectar cool. 
And stir until in all the amber pool 
Mingled the tributes of the seasons are 
And climes. Thus, thus the thin clear cup pre- 
pare 

For my libation to the fleeting dawn! 

— Gods love who sanely start, sanely pass on. 


57 


A Night Off 

I’m loonier ’n 'n owl — tha' 'so. I know it — 

I know all 'bout it. S'pose hie! I can' see 
Noth’n'? Don’ hie! don’ merasshuns show it? 
Tha’ 's w’a' 'sermatter er me! 

I’m hie! I’m tight’s a brick. ‘T ain' nouses- 
nivel — 

’Bout spill’ milk, an’how, ’s I know hie! 

Fact is, gin gen’ly plays er ver* hie! dev’l 
’Th me — w’en a fell’r’s sick. 

Well, now! seems t’ me so’thin’ ’s matt’r sidewalk! 
So’thin’ ’s matt’r er houses! So’thin’ 's matt’r 
er trees! 

So’thin’ 's matt’r ev’rything! Well, 's a wide 
walk — 

Spin ’roun’ ’s much 's y’ please! 

I c’n wait, I can — I ain’ ’n no hie! no hurry! 

Won’er wha* ’s time o’ night tho* hie! an' how! 
Hope She’s 'sleep — ’f sh’ ain’t she’ll hie! she'll 
worry, 

’N’ there’ll be a — whew-u! a row. 

’S too bad — tha' ’s sol 'N' Millie, ’n’ Robbie, 
Both dead now — both und’r er hie! er sod! 
Gone babies — gone darlin’s — gone, hie! Not 
many 

Things left f’r a fell’r! Ah, God! — 


58 


Wha’ ’s that? You 're p’licem’n? No loud hie! 
loud talkin’, 

’N’ swearin’, ’sturbin’ er hie! er peace er street? 

Well, can’ty’letafeller-pray hie! while I’m walkin’? 

Say — ain’t y’ off y’r beat? 

Bett’r have hack ’n’ g’ home, ’fore ’t gets too 
early? 

Jus’ ’s you say, ol’ fell’r! D’y’ hie! d’y’ think 

’S any more s’loons open ? W’a’ ’s use bein’ surly ? 

Come ’long ’th a fell’r ’n’ drink! 

Bett’r g’ home ’n’ get sober? Drive on ’th th’ 
pr ’cession! 

Got any babies, driv’r — huh? Thinks I’m 
tight! 

Poor Jane! — mus’ tell ’er lodge hie! spessle 
shessh’n — 

What home? There — so! A-a’ right! 


59 


Legend of Therese 

Ho! Saddle my steed! ’Tis a glorious morn; 

We will have a wild hunt, and the sound of the 
horn 

Shall wind through the woods with a burst 
and a swell 

To startles the fawns in the slumbering dell. 

The hind on the mountain or down in the glade 

Shall go bounding today for a lonelier shade, 

And the grass on the lea or the moss on the crag 

Shall be crimson tonight with the blood of a 
stag. 

Stand back! Let me spring to the back of my 
steed. 

Now mount, ye who follow — today I will lead. 

For my neck is my own; but ye knights without 
wives, 

Take care — don’t be losing your lady-love’s 
lives. 

Let none but bold spirits be found on my track, 

For my way is my own, and I never look back, 

Loose the hounds, sound the horn — we will 
startle the day! 

Are ye ready, brave knights? Now, Comorin, 
away! 

For the woods! For the woods, at a hurricane 
rate! 

The red sun is rising — the sun rises late. 


60 


The deer has been started, he breaks for the 
plain, 

He is leaving the shade of his lordly domain; 

And the hounds follow hard where his hoof spurn’s 
the sod 

As he leaps o’er the field in his might — like a god; 

Over wall, over ditch, over flooded ravine, 

And the baying of dogs leads the band and its 
queen! 

Right well ran the coursers for many a league, 

Till foaming and panting they sank with fatigue; 

But ere day called a truce with the legion of 
night 

The hunters were swarming a castle-crowned 
height. 

Yet the huntress, Therese, and bold Immolan’s 
heir, 

Not in court nor in hall were the brave and the 
fair; 

For her steed bore her well, and should Immolan 
cease 

And turn back from the chase, and the smile of 
Therese ? 

“I challenge thee, knight, to a trial of speed. 

We have halted awhile, and the chase has a lead 

Which our sport soon may shorten: Come, here 
is my glove!” 

“By my faith, fairest lady, we run but for love! 


61 


A heart for the winner. The heart, be it thine; 

If I lose, thou shalt keep: if I win, it is mine!” 

“Well spoken, Sir Knight, not a wager, in sooth, 

Yet gain ye yon cliff first, I plight ye my 
troth!” 

Like the plunge of a ship with the storm in her sail 

The youth sweeps adown through the cliff-footed 
vale; 

Like a bird, playing out on the wing of the wind, 

The maid rideth close, but her steed is behind. 

But look! No bridge spans that spring torrent 
o’er! 

He sees, gathers speed — leaps — and misses the 
shore! 

While Therese, she is gone — vanished, laughing! 
A sprite! 

And brave Immolan slept with his fathers 
that night. 

There is gloom in the castle of Immolan’s lord: 

His armor is rusted, and sheathed is his sword; 

His horn hangs unsounded; no steed leaves the 
stall, 

And the hounds slumber long by the ruinous 
wall; 

And the huntsman turns back when the chase 
seeks the glen 

Where a sprite wooed the soul from the bravest 
of men! 


62 


Ye who run, neck and neck, love and beauty to 
please, 

Think of Immolan’s lord and the huntress, 
Therese! 


Wave and Shore 

As waves, that climb, caress and cling 
At moments on a welcoming shore, 

Full of the sea’s low sough and swing, 

While skies grow glad that storms are o’er; 
So you, soft voiced, with many smiles. 

And eager face, and clinging arms, 

Climbed up to me — you, full of wiles 
Of fleeting faith and brief alarms. 

As waves reach far, with thin cool lips 
That curl, and flatter into foam, 

And kiss low-lying, rugged slips 

Of shore, where wandering sea-mews come 
And hover over shore and sea, 

You reached me with caress and kiss, 

And smoothly sliding back from me 
Left memory of loss, and bliss. 

I felt you come, and go again, 

Glad, day by day; sad, week by week; 
Something that never could remain. 

Yet of my strength did something seek; 


And knew as that which waits may know 
Of that which comes to gleam and yearn 
Awhile, that you would backward go 
Some day, and never quite return. 

But, ah I loved your shining ways! 

My life grew splendid in their light 
As doth the shore, when in the haze 
Of morn the sun has slain the night, 

And richer made the wrinkled sand 
With golden sheen, and by the friths 
The rugged rocks transfigured stand, 
Storm-polished sun-crowned monoliths. 

Lo I remain true as the shore. 

In isolated friendliness 
To welcome you forevermore 
And moulded be by your caress : 

Or else, while you shall shine and range. 
To strong, and mute and lonely be, 

And make no chiding, know no change, 
Though you roam fickle as the sea. 


64 


Legend of the Potomac 

Dear Guy: I have read your last letter, 

And laughed at your fortune and fun, 

And rebuff from your new flame. Forget her 
As you with a dozen have done. 

Your heart don’t get hurt in a manner 
To injure your billiards or naps; 

Whatever name floats on your banner, 

You still have an extra “perhaps.” 

But I’m not so good at flirtation — 

I’m made of too serious stuff. 

I tangle too quick. Education 
Accounts for that, likely enough. 

But I did flirt a little, though, lately, 

By accident more than design; 

And you’ll be amused, no doubt, greatly, 
With this letter and secret of mine. 

She’s twenty, and lithe as a willow, 

Has dark hair and beautiful eyes; 

And could I select my own pillow, 

I know pretty near where it lies. 

I took her to ride on the river 
In the “Waif” — on a glorious night. 

I’d like to just ride on forever 
With no one but Gerty in sight. 


65 


She played with the silver-smooth water — 

Her hand made a glove out of foam — 

And laughed little laughs when she caught her 
Fair fingers in weeds that “would come 

To the surface to kiss them/’ I told her; 

Then threw up her hair, curled and loose, 

With her dry hand, back over her shoulder — 

By George! Ah, well, Guy, what’s the use! 

Of all the sweet troubles worth knowing, 

The sweetest is this, to my thought: 

To go with the girl you love, rowing, 

Not knowing if she loves you or not. 

But better than that is is this, though, 

If ’twould last, and not fade to a dream; 

To ship oars, let care, but not bliss, go, 

Get spoony, and — drift with the stream. 

Well, we drifted down — scarce a head, Guy, 
Could anyone see in that boat. 

If you know the star we were led by. 

It’s more than I knew there afloat. 

With soft light above us, and water 
Around us and under, why we — 

Just I and old Ten-per-cent’s daughter — 

Were snug as two coons up a tree. 


66 


Now don’t you dare think that another 
Fond girl was there fooling a man; 

I think of my sister, and mother, 
Whenever — whenever I can. 

And Gerty’s as keen as a briar, 

Though fond of a bit of a lark. 

She knows how to kindle a fire, 

Or put her foot down on a spark. 

Well, down to the landing we drifted, 
Content with the hour that was o’er : 

I took Gerty up, and just lifted 
The dear little package ashore — 

She weighs but a hundred — and took her 
And carried her half up the hill. 

I was tipsier with bliss than Joe Hooker 
With — powder — at Chancellorville. 

Now, Guy, after all, when I met her 
Last night at the “music,” the girl 

Said she hoped I was feeling much better 
For getting her hair out of curl. 

And mussing her collar. This daughter 
Of Croesus looked cool as a saint! — 

One knows of a flirt that he’s got her — 
Until he knows better he ha’n’t. 


67 


Kisses 

All the long and toil-bright day, 

Love, from you am I away; 

Now when twilight shadows come, 

I draw near to you and home. 

Kisses sweet, kisses sweet, 

Kisses for you as we meet! 

Ah, my love, how long it is 
Since we parted, with a kiss! 

Lightly comes to us the breeze, 

Blown from balmy distances. 

Near us mated sparrows rest. 

Silent with a love-filled nest. 

Kisses sweet, kisses sweet, 

On my tired eyelids beat 

Like blown rose leaves. Dear it is. 

Resting so, to feel your kiss! 

Bright for us the lovers’ star, 

Venus, shines in heav’n afar, 

Slowly melting in the west, 

Lighting other lovers blest. 

Kisses sweet! kisses sweet! 

Still your lips, my love, I greet. 
Stars may die, and leave me this. 
You to kiss me, you to kiss! 


68 


Legend of the Elysian Fields 

Once more! I saw today where we were lovers. 

I saw the arbor that the grape vine covers. 

Where you and I of old made rustic vases 
For flowers to grow in, on the lawny spaces. 

I saw the locust trees, papilionaceous, 

Spread their green arms in welcoming way and 
gracious, 

And toss their plumy heads, with ne’er a thought 
on 

The scenes beneath them in days unforgotten. 

I saw the window in the second story 
Where your face shone for me, my saint’s, in glory 
Of evenings soft, and where, seen in the morning, 
I knew the day need give no other warning. 

I saw the clematis, my Virgin’s bow’r 
In those June days, above the porch. In flow’r 
Sweet things were once. One thrush, a Poly- 
glottus, 

Each morning all the birds’ best music brought us, 

And from a box tree, near those Grecian vases 
Which moderns make, sang, looking in our faces, 
While you sat hushed, or beamed with silent 
laughter. 

How well do I remember it, these years there- 
after! 



THE GREAT FALLS OF THE POTOMAC 





69 


I saw the Gum tree, genus Liquidambar, 

Around whose trunk an ivy learned to clamber. 
Till one life nourished both. Letters initial 
We cut on them, ere life grew artificial, 

And named the sturdy tree and clinging climber, 
The One for you, the other for your rhymer. 

Ah, darling, well it is we heed no story 

That such sweet things are love’s memento mori! 

I saw the wood edge that in spring you haunted, 
Pretending it w r as violets, not me, you wanted; 
Though when I sought you with my spoils botanic 
You only showed a satisfactory panic. 

What great rich Heartsease grew along that 
border — 

Or was it your blue eyes ? Call me to order 
If I misstate. What delicate pink color 
On honeysuckles wild — or cheeks de velours! 

What pure ensanguinement upon the primrose — 
Or on your lips! These touched, for you a hymn 
’rose 

Up from my heart to Venus Aphrodite, 

Mother of all, who maketh youth most mighty, 

And middle life, warms age, and even our ashes, 
If life, as love, immortal be. The flashes 
And lambencies that lure or light a mortal 
Shine someway from her torch across Death’s 
portal. 


70 


By some such light today, in mental vision, 

I retrospective saw our old, elysian, 

And century-builded palace, roofed with azure, 
With gilded clouds in fresco. To the measure 

Of pine and oak its pillars grand were rounded, 
And through it water murmurously sounded; 
Carpetal moss, renewed through endless summers, 
Caressed to silence footsteps of all comers; 

There ferns grew low along a marshy border, 
Pan’s unused remnants of the Corinthian order, 
And huge tree roots, with lichen broidered covers, 
Made laps like sylvan grandsires for us, lovers. 

O Palace of the Woods! where are thy tenants? 
That sweet things pass away, that is love’s 
penance; 

Yet though the heart holds but a broken story, 
Its dead past wears the aureola, the glory. 

All this I felt and saw, while speeding onward, 

I, body and soul from sunset turning sunward, 
To breast the Morn and Memory. Happy vision, 
To catch once more a glimpse of Fields Elysian! 


71 


Love’s Psychophone 
The mountain breezes coolly blow 
Across the distant peaks of snow 
Where the Sierras Madres stand; 

They wave the willows o’er my head, 

The grasses bordering my bed. 

And touch my brow with soothings bland. 

And near, and hurrying by my feet 
With voice half smothered, water sweet, 
Drawn from the bosom of the hill, 

Or higher, from the mountain side 
Where into snow the storms have died, 
Forever journeying sings a rill. 

From oceans far these breezes come, 

Where westward waters find a home; 

But breeze nor brook, that comfort be 
In this wild plain remote and strange. 
Hemmed in by many a mountain range, 

Can bear a message hence for me. 

But backward from the rocky steeps 
Where grim Sangre de Cristo keeps 
The key between these brother lands, 

And shows but to the few and bold 
His wondrous visions manifold, 

I yearning stretched to you my hands: 


72 

Aye, standing on that rocky rim, 

While far away the world grew dim 

In distance (and through tears, no shame 
Were it to own), I plucked for you 
A tiny hare-bell, heaven-blue. 

And breathed it homeward with your name. 


73 


Legends Trans Vista 
I dreamed that in a summer afternoon, 

I, in a window of a farmhouse old. 

Reclined. The air seemed in delicious swoon; 

And from my feet the meadow was unrolled; 
And hazy-dim the woodland seen afar 
In silence stood; and cattle in a pool 
Drowsed lazily. No sound shook the bland air 
Of that hour full of peace, of silence full. 


I never saw the place, save in my dream, 

Nor hours that e’er more goldenly went by 
To gild my later thought — as on a stream 
The summer sunshine moveless seems to lie; 
Yet not more real seems the present hour, 

Or meadow near, or skyey canopy, 

Than doth that phantasy, that had pow’r 
To make like real things a memory. 

For while I leaned within that window high, 

In silence centered as a bird that sings 
As in its song, I heard a sudden cry 

And frightened flutter of swift-stirring wings. 
And quickly turning saw a fleeing dove 

And fleeter hawk pursuing — swift the race — 
Like lightning swooped the falcon from above. 
Nor could the quarry white avoid the chase. 


74 


Ah, sadder eyes I never yet have seen 

Than in my dream had that pure frighted 
thing; 

And fiercer, crueller, have never been 

Than were the falcon’s, nor a swifter wing. 

My heart was sore with grief for that white bird, 
Of fierceness still the immemorial prey; 

But soon diminished were the sounds I heard. 

As swift wings bore the eager chase away. 

But swiftly it came back, once and again — 

O for some language to a white dove known! 

It might have trusted me, and not in vain — 

The falcon’s heart no pity had, my own 

Was full of it. I opened wide my breast, 

And wild despairing eyes sought home at last, 

And in a moment was a dove at rest. 

And that foiled falcon shot with fierce scream 
past. 

I folded hand o’er hand across my heart, 

And softly held what hid and panted there; 

And in my dream this wonder was a part — 

The dove became a maid, Madonna fair, 

Who clung half-timidly and held her face 

Where she had found her succour — lay at rest 

White as a lily, with a lily’s grace, 

In splendor of the sun-smile of the West. 


75 


Ah, me! the sweetest things come not while we 
In senseful wakefulness may clasp them close. 
In dreams we reach beyond reality, 

And find the blossom that in dreamland blows. 
Still summer day, so peaceful and so fair, 
Crowned with its joy, and after trouble rest. 
Come not in dreams and leave the white dove 
where 

Are folded arms across an empty breast! 


76 


Over There 

I do not doubt that you are fair 
And young, and sometimes sweet — 

For I have seen you comb your hair. 

And even wash your feet. 

I sit with scarcely touched cigar, 

And softly, vainly muse 
Upon the curious ways there are 
Of loosening gaiter shoes. 

Tom Hood has said the moon should beam, 
To show the very things 
Which man should never see. I seem, 

When kindly nature brings 
The hour to elevate my nose 
For its nocturnal tune. 

To find the gas as good for those 
Sweet uses as the moon. 

I wonder that you do not heed 
Your windows, dear, at eve. 

I know you do not know I read 
You as you’d scarce believe. 

One turn upon your gas, my ways 
Of thinking would come right — 

“Put out the light,” Othello says, 

“And then — put out the light!” 


77 


The way you leisurely disrobe, 

And fix and unfix things, 

Would turn the heads of half the globe, 
“Of captains and of kings.” 

All may to you seem sans souci 
As you for rest repair; 

But shut the blinds — 0 vis-a-vis , 

I’ll shut my eyes, so there! 


78 


High Finance 

In their solid old armchairs the Senators sit, 
Chink $ $ and $ $ and $ $, 

They mostly have weight and a lucrative wit, 
Towards $ $ and $ $ and $ $. 

They move in large circles and ponderous ways, 
And their courses of progress appear like delays; 
But they go mighty sure thro’ a courteous haze, 
Towards $ $ and $ $ and $ $. 

The barons of Iron and Lumber are there, 

Chink $ $ and $ $ and $ $, 

Argentiferous earls hear the Chaplain’s long 
pray’r. 

Dreaming $ $ and $ $ and $ $. 

Carboniferous marquises, dukes of Coal Oil, 

Give to huge money bills an enormous brain toil; 
And princes of Railways and monarchs of Soil, 
Corner $ $ and $ $ and $ $. 

Ah, few find a place in a Senator’s seat, 

Without $ $ and $ $ and $ $; 

For brains without gains are not hard to beat 
Just by $ $ and $ $ and $ $. 

Omnipotent lucre can fashion the laws 
If it chips in to tariff the good of the cause. 

So we might as well hail with unbounded applause, 
Cold $ $ and $ $ and $ $. 


79 


Ratiocination 

More than eighty years ago, when the late Horatio 
Seymour 

Was a new-fledged lawyer in a thrifty inland 
town, 

And probably not dreaming that he would ever be 
more 

Than a thousand others now of national renown ; 

And Mr. Roscoe Conkling, late son-in-law, then a 
skater 

On the Oriskany River (out of school in winter 
time) ; 

And old Judge Jenkins was considerably greater 

Than any local Whig (with whiggery in prime). 

Then the Oneida Indians were in considerable 
’ vigor, 

And less beautifully civilized (so to speak) in life 

Than they seem to be now-a-days — when a Chief 
is a “bigger 

Man than Old Grant,” even with one regular 
wife, 

And could philosophise, he could, upon cause and 
effect. 

And be governed to some extent by logical 
conclusions 

As a white man would (we might reasonably 
expect, 

Without the reductio ad absurdum of contusions). 


BO 


When my Whitesboro forebear told me that one 
Old Brave 

(Whose ancestors were probably not of Milesian 
descent) 

After an election in Utica, which in those days 
gave 

A good deal of flow, as it were, to an element 

More or less common, remarked with a compre- 
hensive clutch 

At an elusive pump (he being chock full of 
quantum suff ) : 

“A liddle too much whiskey in a liddle — whoop \ — 
too much ; 

But a liddle — too — much — cider is hie! just 
enough. 


81 


Legend of Love 
If in the Orient, 

Over some kingdom rich and wide, 

I were a Prince, and couchant at my side 
My golden lions lay, and a throne brent 
Above a crowd of nobles were my seat, 

And cloth of gold drooped heavy to my feet; 

Lo, if such grandeur were my regal state, 
Magnificently great, 

I would command, and so a train should move 
Laden with gold, and silks that women love, 

And linens fair, and spices, and perfume. 

And flowers rare, of oriental bloom. 

And wine from ancient hillsides, where the sun 
The earth’s swart breast his cheek had laid upon 
Until it blushed in grapes, and figs, and dates, 
And ruddy pomegranates; 

And these with many gems, woven in gold 
In curious ways, and patterns manifold, 

Spelling thy name and full of praise of thee, 
These on the laden train should go from me 
With sound of silver bells; and with it all 
Should go my prayer that nothing ill befall 
Those gifts, nor thee, O Princess rare and sweet! 
All these, for thee, should gather at thy feet, 
And make me glad in giving them as thee 
Receiving them. 


But now, ah me! 


82 


I am no prince, and riches have I none 
That one should gladdened be to look upon : 
Only my heart is kingly. But unseen 
Are its best gifts wherewith to deck a Queen. 

In place of gold, only some golden thought 
Into a web of rhyme for thee is wrought; 

Instead of gems, there is a little praise 
Of thee, and, haply, noting of the w r ays 
Wherein they pleasure is; instead of wine, 

Love, that is older, sadder, but divine; 

And lo, at last, my poverty to prove, 

I am made royal only by thy love, 

And own a kingdom solely while of me 
There shall remain one welcome thought in thee. 


88 


Anchyses to Venus 

Come, 0 my Princess, lay thy cheek to mine — 
Thine full and fair! 

Unbind thy tresses — let them intertwine 
With my dark, dew-damp hair! 

Coiled serpent-wise, in glory of their gloss, 

Spring them upon my head from out their circled 
boss. 


Thine arm lies o’er me like a swooning thing, 
Flame under snow. 

My heart’s tense strength holds thy heart flut- 
tering, 

And will not let it go. 

My lips to thine, thy lips to mine are pressed, 

As if in love’s sweet labor only there were rest. 


I drink thy breath — a faint, ethereal wine — 

In sense and soul 
I feel its gentle potency divine, 

And own its deep control. 

Thine eyes like violets draw their dew from 
heaven, 

And tenderer grow with light of love received and 
given. 


84 


O couldst thou always lie as thou dost now, 

In one long dream, 

With all thy midnight beauty ’round thy brow, 
And this soft-coming gleam 
Of light supernal lingering on thy bloom, 

I’d cling to thee for aye, and cheat the famished 
tomb. 


85 


Old China 
Thee the far-off Orient 
Hath this fragile tribute sent, 
Fashioned from its ancient mold, 
That it may the nectar hold 
Which thy careful hand distils 
From the herbage of its hills. 
Fingers deft and Asian 
Gave these wandered waifs a plan, 
Spread the colors here employed, 
Watched by eyes amygdaloid, 

Till the furnace heat they met, 
Where the tints were surely set 
Never more to be effaced. 

Lady, fill the cup and taste, 
Making thy own care the tea 
Always, that herein may be. 
Dainty cup to dainty lip — 
Sweetest musings with the sip! 
Blest the anniversary 
Of the soft-receding day 
When, fair welcome to our race, 
First thy mother kissed thy face. 
But let maiden memory 
Later days recall to thee — 
Bearded lips have blessed the brim 
Of this cup : think once of him 
Who, to cheer thy natal day, 

Sends thee tribute of Cathay. 


86 


Legend of Heaven 

If there are happy Isles in some great river 
Far, far away, by whose shores lilies quiver 
On palpitating waves, with hearts all golden 
And lazy-anchored leaves, that have grown olden 
In one long youth; if from those emerald islands 
Far inland rise to silence stately highlands 
Above whose outlines verdurous, undulating, 
Bright clouds by day and stars by night seem 
waiting; 

If from high secret springs pure streams are swel- 
ling, 

And glad tales never wholly told are telling 
To wandering breezes flattering crimson roses, 
Or lapping in soft languor shaded closes 
Of silvery sanded bays; if from the shadow 
Of birch or aspen, edged upon some meadow 
Whose waving wealth ne’er fell before the 
mower, 

Whose increase is for Time, the eternal sower, 
Comes now and then a song out of the silence 
And dies beyond the borders of those islands, 
Enticing happy wanderers to wander 
In search of melody that still is yonder; 

That land to which such peace and bloom are 
given, 

Those Islands far and fair — that must be Heaven! 


87 


There should be angels — such as we have known 
them — 

Dear faces, bright with good bestowed, or shown 
them. 

There should be welcome for the weary groping 
In search of hope too long for any hoping. 

There words we yearn our lives through to hear 
spoken 

Should still us into blessed tears. There broken 
And withered garlands love in old time gave us 
Should suddenly rebloom, and wholly save us 
Distrust of all our past, or of the present — 

As out of a wan, weak, forgotten crescent 
A full moon rounds and fills the night with glory. 
There should we learn the meaning of our story; 
The good of patience, benefit of sorrow. 

And why today was longing for tomorrow. 

Ah, is there such a spot, worth each one’s knowing, 
Where what we miss is gone, where we are going ? 
Where saints we knew, who fell by waysides weary 
Of battled sins find rest and welcome cheery? 
Where spirit myth becomes celestial brother, 

And sky and earth deal truly with each other, 
And gods extort not penances for living ? 

— Why not this Heaven here, half of our giving! 


88 


Like a Dream 

Days of our childhood, when our little troubles 
Are soothed or banished by the love at home, 
When joys are of the hearth, which each one 
doubles 

Before the wayward feet have learned to roam; 
Dear days, sweet days, gone from us they seem 
Like a dream, like a dream. 

Days of our youth, with all the world before us, 
And hope divinely beckoning us on, 

And love to lure, fateful as Siren chorus 
On alien shores made radiant with dawn; 

Sweet days, sad days, sad or sweet they seem 
Like a dream, like a dream. 

Days later grown, when the old home forsaken. 

In later scenes afar our homes we build. 

When we have learned how kindred may be 
taken, 

And hollows in our hearts are never filled; 

Sad days, strong days, passing still they seem 
Like a dream, like a dream. 

Days of our age, when flown from us forever 
Childhood and youth, and middle life are lost. 
And time streams far behind, like some dim river 
WTiose waves oblivious are little tossed; 

Days when we sit and muse, must all things seem 
Like a dream, like a dream! 


89 


Days of our life, if love were not abiding 
A little still, from childhood to the grave, 
And with its light so much of darkness hiding, 
Our ashes might be strewn upon the wave, 
And hope eternal be in life’s lapsed stream 
Like a dream of a dream. 


Acrostic 

Many and great the blessings thou hast sent 
On wings that never faltered, to thy son, 

Turning a wayward heart from discontent — 
Homeward and heavenward, where thou art, ’tis 
one. 

Earth while thou livedst Eden was to me — 
Reaching beyond I only follow thee. 


90 


Mary 

Oh, many, many years ago, 

By places where the violets grow 
That love the sun in the new spring, 

And where the blue birds come to sing, 

A long, sunshiny, quiet way 
To school I led my sister May. 

Day after day, and hand in hand 
We pattered o’er the path of sand, 

I plucking violets here and there 
To tangle in her tangled hair, 

She singing broken bits of song 
That cheered me all the summer long. 

And many, many years ago, 

Under the first November snow, 

With thin hands folded on her breast 
They laid the little child to rest: 

One golden summer, only one, 

And birds, and flowers, and she, were gone! 

But w r here the blue birds came to sing, 

By places where the violets grow 
That love the sun in the new spring. 

Oh, many, many years ago, 

A long, sunshiny, quiet way 
To school, I led my sister May! 



SUNSHINE 








91 


Cradle Song 

Sleep, my baby, sleep! 

Close thy wondering eyes; 

They question me so deep 
Of life’s new mysteries. 

Close thy kissed eyelids free from every care; 

Thy trust to me is holier than my pray’r. 

Dream, my baby, dream, 

Thy smiles thy dreams reveal, 

Till mother still doth seem 

Through thee, her own to feel. 

Dream while thou mayest, innocent and pure, 
Life yieldeth more than dreams may well endure. 

Come, my baby, come. 

Out of the dark of sleep! 

My bosom is thy home; 

Smile, though thy mother weep — 
Weep for the joy she draws from thy dear eyes, 
O darling of my world and pledge of Paradise! 


Legend of America. 

Long live America, sunland and wide, 

Corn, oil and vine land, and home land beside; 
Billows may bear us or bring to thy shore, 

Near or afar will we love thee the more. 

Broad be thy empire o’er land and o’er sea 
While true hearts throb with the mem’ry of thee! 

Long live America! Ever in peace 

May thy starred banner unfold to the breeze; 

But if thy foes scorn to honor thy right, 

Leaps thy live Glory-flag, front of the fight, 

As stand thy shores to the shock of the sea, 

Stand thy defenders, O home of the free! 

Long live, America — stainless and whole, 

One, while thy rivers shall oceanward roll; 

One, till the sun shines no more from thy skies; 
One till the dead at Mount Vernon arise; 

One and united while true hearts and free 
Pledge life, and fortune, and honor to thee! 

Long live, America — hear Thou our cry 
Ruler of Nations, afar or anigh; 

Thou wast our forefathers’ shield and reward — 
Guide Thou our going, omnipotent Lord; 

And may our peace shout and battle cry be, 

Long live, America, nearest to Thee! 


93 


Chorus: 

Long live America! 

Long live America! 

Long live America 
Home of the Free ! 1 

*Sung at Washington Hall, Watertown, N. Y., before 
the State Teachers’ Association, in the summer of 1861, 
to organ music. 


94 


Emancipation 

Lift up your faces to the golden dawn 
That ushers in your year of jubilee, 

Ye who to unrequited toil have gone, 

In this great land, in this proud century. 

The clock of time has beat its seconds slow, 

But lo, the hour of your release has come, 

Aye, strikes, and thrills the world with every blow 
That rings oppression out, and freedom home! 

Not, not in vain “How long, O Lord, how long?” 

Have ye inquired of Him who knew your needs; 
For those who prospered by your ancient wrong 
Invoked the vengeance that upon their heads 
Is raining ruin. So, the Lord is just. 

From this Red Sea of War ye, ye alone 
Come up unharmed, while all the oppressor host 
In the mid-passage shall be overthrown. 

Camp Barry, Washington, April, 1862. 


95 


Bartholdi Statue 

Lift thy all-mighty hand, 

O Liberty divine, 

And let to every land 

Thy torch and knowledge shine! 

Not unto us alone be most thy good — 

Teach all mankind their widening brotherhood. 

To Kings, and since of old 

Time was, that then was young, 

Have homages and gold 

Been given, and praises sung; 

And evermore the fetters clung to men. 

Which, broken, their own hands helped forge again . 

But, lo, a spirit stirred 
In multitudinous chords, 

Moves through one mighty word 
To snap the steel of swords, 

And rock to ruin castles rapine builds, 
Intrenching wrong, upon a thousand hills! 

That spirit deifies 

Thy boundless soul and form, 

And from thy holy eyes 

Shines into hearts, made warm 
To work the best for all, and unto all, 

Who hear thy chant and harken to thy call. 


96 


Then light us with thy light. 

And others, more and more, 

Til through all human night 
Men feel its splendor pour. 

On each who waits they benediction be, 
Genius of Joy, Hope-Mother, Liberty! 










































































































































































































































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MONUMENT TO LIGHT BATTERY C, FIRST N. Y. 
ARTILLERY. OPPOSITE DEVILS DEN. GETTYSBURG. PA. 





97 


Legend of Gettysburg 

I’m lying out tonight, love, 

Beneath the moon and stars, 

That sift a silvery misty light 

Down through the cloudy bars 

Which float beneath them, as a veil might move 

Before the face of one serenely bright 

As the Madonna. Armies hushed to sleep 

Lie ’round me, quiet as the placid deep. 

And all is wondrous still. 

Above if there be any melody 
It comes not audibly adown to me, 

Unless, perhaps, that without thought or will 
My inmost sense receives some soft refrain, 

And knows not whence it emanates; 

Yet listens but to hear it once again 
Ooze through heaven’s golden gates — 

For it should be of heaven at the hour 

When the late bee dreams on the drooping flow’r. 

And here below 

Repose and silence over all things creep; 

And rest is given by a little peace 

That leadeth down to sleep 

Through the low vale of tender reveries — 

Sleep that for weary ones who watch the war 
Twines poppy wreaths ’round many a rugged brow, 


100 


The Soldier’s Wife 

How wearily the days go by. 

How silence sits, a guest, at home 
While she, with listless step and eye, 

Still waits, for one who does not come. 
The sunshine streams across the floor 
A golden solitary track, 

The bees hum in and out the door, 

The olden clock goes, click-a-clack, 
While baby sitting, wonder-eyed, 
Regards the kitten’s noiseless play, 

Till sleep comes gently, and she lies 
At rest through half the summer day. 

When twilight cometh dim and gray. 

She sits anear the open door; 

Before her lies the graveled way 
O’erhung by ancient sycamore, 

And through the eve she hears the cry 
Of whippoorwills that near the light, 
She sees the star of evening die, 

And all around her broods the night. 
Then “By-lo-baby, baby-bye!” 

She sings her little one to rest, 

And clasps her face so lovingly 

Held warm and close against her breast. 


101 

Beside her lonely couch she kneels 
And clasps her hands before her face ; 

Ah, only Christ knows how she feels, 

A lonely supplicant for grace; 

She prays for one who does not come 
And draws an answer from her hopes, 

And then, within her silent home, 

While stars slide down night’s silvery slopes, 
She nestles close beside her child, 

And one arm o’er it shielding throws, 

And dreams of joy by day beguiled 
Until the rose of morning blows. 


102 


Twilight in Camp 

The twilight like a hooded nun 
Comes silent footed oe’r the hills. 

The vesper chanting whippoorwills 
Seem glad the heated day is done — 

Glad, for they sing; y^t in their song 
There sometime seems a plaintive tone, 
As if to birds there could be known 
With love regret, or pain, or wrong. 

They call, and answer from afar; 

They fill the silence with a name. 

Night after night it is the same, 

As is the shining of a star. 

And thus to those I love I call, 

Through days of absence; and I hear 
By answering lips my name made dear — 
Or think I hear, if that is all. 

And when the twilight hour is come, 
Whate’er of care the day has brought, 
My heart grows patient in the thought 
My name is called by those at home. 


103 


Legend of Arlington 

0 days that are dead as the roses 
Which blossom where no roses grew, 

On the tomb where forever reposes 
The soldier who fear never knew; 1 
Your suns which rose sullen and lurid. 

And gleamed through the smoke of the fray, 

In the darkness of Peace are now buried, 

As a meteor passeth away! 

No more the hoof tramples the meadow 
In the passion and power of fight; 

No more through the sentineled shadow 
Of evening the camp-fires are bright; 

No more the far bugle sounds, lonely, 

To call the tired soldier to sleep, 

Far watched by the patient eyes only 
Of Night, from her infinite deep — 

Peace reigns! Peace, which steals the rich favors 
That War out of carnage has won, 

Through the long and applauded endeavors 
That robbed many homes of a son. 

Blow loud through the land like a trumpet, 

That all men may hear her false name, 

Such peace is a sanctified strumpet 

Who reddens Mars’ cheek with her shame! 


1 Tomb of the unknown dead. 


104 


Peace ? Peace may be deadlier than war is — 
Peace robbing war’s dead and his poor — 
Peace full of the legalized forays 
On those who but live to endure — 

Peace stealing the pittance from labor — 
Peace stricturing homes till they groan — 
Peace making of Shylock a neighbor, 

Who taketh the flesh and the bone — 

Peace piping a lay in a bower, 

Lascivious strains of a lute, 

Till we wish, if for only an hour, 

For the snap and the snarl of the brute, 
Or long for the lordlier glory 

That roars from the throats of the guns 
Where the edge of the rampart is gory. 

And Victory laurels her sons! 

Blow, winds of the world, blow us battle, 

So we conquer our meanness and spite! 
Let the hot hail of musketry rattle, 

If it teach men in honor to smite! 

Oh, tears for the brave are yet sweeter 
Than tears a sick peace makes us shed, 
And the nation is greater, and better, 

Which mourns not the living, but dead! 


105 


The Last Watch 

“Ah, comrade old, sit here and hold 
My hand, a little while. 

Long, long it seems, as if in dreams, 

Since last I saw your smile. 

How the years pass! It is, alas, 

No tent we share; no light 

Of camp fires ’round the guarded ground — 

I have no home tonight. 

“What did you say ? Peninsula ? 

Remember Little Mac ? 

We should have beat, with no retreat — 
McDowell was held back! 

Ah, yes, I know they say not so 
Who never saw a fight. 

What matters all that to recall — 

I have no home tonight. 

“The Weldon Road? There once we showed 
The color of our eyes. 

There Hayward 1 broke, in blood and smoke 
War-lifted to the skies. 

Brave Blue or Gray, man, anyway, 

The wrong side or the right, 

The shifting years bring each to tears — 

I have no home tonight. 


1 Of South Carolina. 


IOC 


“The tented plain — oh, once again 
Restore to me that home! 

The ranks were true, in gray or blue — 
There death need bravely come. 

But here, in peace, to find release, 

This is the bitterest fight. 

Forgetful War, roll back your car 
And tent me home tonight!” 

A shuddering gasp, a loosened clasp — 

A comrade passed away! 

Beneath his head, a tattered shred, 

His shot-torn guidon lay. 

Struggles with peace, must they so cease 
For him who learned to fight 

Through awful days, with soul ablaze 
For country and for right? 

O brave and true, what do men do 
To you who served so well? 

Shouldered aside, your worth denied, 
Your anguish who can tell ? 

Behind you close your country’s woes — 
Before her all is bright; 

But broken ranks win broken thanks. 
Nor tent nor home at night. 


107 


Legends of Time 
Tomorrow 

The glory of our lives seems cast before — 

The shadow lies behind, or here; and o’er 
Today we hear the whisper, evermore, 

“Tomorrow!” 

But suns go down, and night-times draw anigh; 
Pale lights push slowly through the pearl-gray sky ; 
And still we think, elate, or with a sigh, 

“Tomorrow!” 

But little comes that is not over-late, 

Behind our need, and half despoiled by fate; 
Today-defrauded, hoping we await 

“Tomorrow!” 


Perpetual years seem hid in it away 
To blossom, aloe-aged, into Today, 

That, changing, leaves, with things that change 
and stay, 

“Tomorrow!” 


Recede, O Time, and let your days slip by 
Like thin gray clouds, wind driven hurriedly, 

Till shines benignant o’er us, from your sky, 

“Tomorrow!” 

No! See — the winds blow brisk across the bay: 
The pilgrim waves, white cowled, from far away. 
Could seldom reach a shore of yesterday. 

“Tomorrow!” 


108 


No soul has ever lived that day to view; 

No iris e’er was prismed in its dew. 

Mirage of Time! Did Odysseus o’er pursue 

“Tomorrow” 

Through siege of Troy, Calypso mystery? 
Time not outravel wise Penelope ? 

— Only blind Homers live to see to see 

“Tomorrow!” 


Morning 

With cloudy robes dyed with the dusk and 
the splendor 

Of dawn, and one wonderful star on her brow, 
Her eyes full of greeting benignant and tender. 
The glorified morning is meeting me now. 

And, lo! while the mountains emerge and grow 
brighter. 

And incense from rivers in valleys is curled 
In clouds that ascend, with a sound to delight her 
The music of life goeth up from the world. 

Lo, long with the dusky night have I been lying, 
Her lips breathing slumberous sounds in my ear; 
But I wake at the wind of her robes past me flying. 
She fleeing, face turned, and feet whispering 
fear. 


109 


And so from the place where for many hours hid- 
den, 

With night lying loose-armed, delicious and 
still, 

I look in the face of the morn and am chidden, 
And, faultily loyal, with love of her thrill. 

O Morning abundant and regnant, be gracious 
With brightness redeeming to visit me yet! 

The fugitive bliss of the Night, in our spacious, 
Eternal and purified palace, forget! 


Home-Made Ghosts 

In a summer that backward has drifted 
To silence and dimness of dreams. 

From which not a shadow is lifted, 

On which no new light ever gleams. 

Is a garden whose flowers have ended 
Their bloom, and whose odors are lost 
For the leaves are all dead that were splendid, 
And fallen without winter or frost. 

And ghosts of the dead that are living 
Are haunting that garden of flowers, 

And seem to be taking and giving 
Their gifts as in days that were ours. 
Wherever we be will that garden 
And ghosts of the living appear — 

Ourselves of the Past keeping ward in 
The haunts of a fugitive year. 


110 


Taps — The Blue and The Gray 

Tune — PleyeVs Hymn 

Comrades, we who linger here, 
Holding mutual memories dear, 
Let us honor, while we may, 
Comrades who have passed away. 

Ready at our country’s call 
Foes to fight, and fighting fall, 
They have, on their march below, 
Heard the lone last bugle blow. 

Comrades, who are mustered in, 
Tented host absolved of sin, 
Camped upon the Elysian Plain 
Nevermore to fight again, 

Not for many weary days 
Shall we march our nearing ways, 
Ere, with you, we gain release, 
Bivouacked in eternal peace. 


Sunset at Sea 

The great World shines around us as a ring; 

And from its thither edge evanishing 
In amethyst and gold, recedes onrolled 
O’er Oceans vastnesses the Sun of old, 

That through our little lives and vapor names, 
Life’s pre immortal diamond gleams, and flames! 


Ill 


The Legends of Nirvana. 

A God has given thee his rest. — Virgil's Georgies 
Thanatos 

Delay or not thy coming unto me, 

Thou who alone canst make us wholly free 
From pain, and heartache bitterer than pain; 
From hopes fled utterly; from longings vain; 
From pride brought low in human weaknesses, 
Ours as of birthright, and the ’whelming seas 
And tides that overlast the Pleiades 
And their lost sister: for the reach of fate 
With all beginnings is commensurate, 

And hasten as we can we are too late 
For any goal but thine, immortal Death! 

We yield to thee alone our latest breath. 

Our only gift, since all the rest is gone 
Like vapor of the morn, and stricken, lone, 
We grope into thy presence without fear — 
For nothing dearer is when thou art dear. 

We know not if beyond us there shall move 
A soul to wound us or a soul to love; 

And well our human life hath taught us this, 
That anguish is the final flow’r of bliss. 
Enough, at last, if on thy cooling breast 
The fevered soul finds surety of thy rest. 


in 

Rest 

Burn low, oh light and let the darkness in! 

Let silence be where fitful sounds have been; 

Let soul to body be no more a mate; 

Let each, too tired, be sweetly desolate. 

Yea, let the soul, e’en as a too-loved bride, 

Turn gently from its sacred body’s side; 

Love slumber more than love; turn and be still, 
Now that they both, or not, have had their will. 

What matters it? — they both are tired to death. 
They, married with the breathing of a breath, 
Would gather up the feet and be at rest, 

Content to be oblivious of the best; 

And happier so all discord to elude, 

All bitter pain, in that great solitude 
That reaches like a sea, cool, infinite, 

O’er folded hands and lips to memory sweet — 

A sea of grassy waves, foam-fringed with flow’rs. 
The tenderest gift of any gifts of ours: 

For lo, the last of all, with floral wile 
We woo the mutest thing, the grave, to smile! 

If one goes gladly at the close of day. 

Puts all the playthings of his world away. 

Pulls down the curtain, lays his aching head 
And weary body on a downy bed, 


113 


Divested of all care, but robed in sleep. 

Not any one will make it cause to weep : 

Then after one sigh if there be no breath, 

What rest is kindlier than the sleep of death ? 

O soul, we each have wearied! Let us turn 
Both breast from breast. What is there more to 
learn? 

There may be dawn beyond the midnight’s pall, 
But now sweet rest is better — best of all. 


114 


Dirge of World Winds. 

Ye wailing winter winds, 

Whose throats are full of woe, 

Choked as with driven snow 
That stifles and that blinds, 

0 whither do ye go ? 

And in what lonely depth of solitude, 

WTiat boundless waste of drear and darkened wood. 
Find ye a place to die ? 

Ye roam bleak streets and desolated meads, 
Grief-stricken phantoms upon phantom steeds, 
And in your wake the silence breathes a sigh. 

The lingering last leaves rustle and they fall; 

The clouds droop fold on fold, a dreary pall; 

O wailing winter winds! 

O tearful sobbing winds! 

And loneliness broods in the heart of all. 

We know, in the sad night. 

While stars give fitful light. 

And there are glimpses of a ghostly moon, 

While low the house-dog howls 
His answer to the owls, 

The old year dies, and dies, alas, too soon! 

Wail, wail, O winds! 

The lingering last leaves rustle and they fall; 

The clouds droop fold on fold, a dreary pall; 

The year, the year so wretched utterly, 

So driven homeless, as the heart of me, 


115 


The old year dies, and yet, alas, too soon! 

Wail, wail, 0 winds! 

He held within the hollow of his hands 
More wealth for me than riches of all lands — 
Held, and then gave, and then at last withdrew; 
0 year to fate inexorably true, 

As fate is false to me 

And treacherous as the hoary-sinning sea! 

We were true friends; and now, alas, I mourn 
Thee and they dead — all that will not return : 
The banished welcomes — heart embraces sweet — 
The clasp of hands at coming of glad feet, 

The looks and tones made pregnant with a love 
Regnant and loyal. Lonelier than the dove 
That found no olive branch nor place of rest, 

Lo! I return, pale year, and on thy breast 
Hollow with death as mine is void of bliss, 

I lay my cross of flow’rs, 

Dead bloom of thy dead hours. 

And greet thee with the unrequited kiss ! 

0 heart of me! O desolate year of years! 

Wail, wail, O winds! 

The tribute of a tear — 

The tribute of all bitterness of tears, 

1 rain upon thy sad and silent bier! 

Not anything that once was thine and mine, 
Nothing that to the heart could cling and twine. 
No love, of happy hours, 


116 


No bloom that comes to life, as to the flow’rs, 
Nothing that we would hold in sweetness yet, 
Nothing we lived for and would not forget, 

Not all not any of all these things can be 
Again for thee and me, 

O great, grand-hearted, poor, life-empty year! 

So wail, O winds! 

Wail, wail, moan and wail above its bier! 

The dead loves wither on the dead year’s pall, 
And dust and tears are sprinkled over all! 

Ah, if we knew what ways for us are best, 

Should we still go so sadly to our rest? 

O’er the lost years how many sorrows bloom! 

But is there any quiet of the tomb? 

Sleep without dreams — white poppy o’er us set — 
One epitaph for every grave: Regret! 

Requiem. 

Ah, fond and foolish heart, be still, nor pine 
That change comes to the oak, as to the vine; 
That objects to which our devotion clings 
Assume before us the surprise of wings 
And vanish where we know not. Our sole right, 
As proved be every grieving eremite. 

Is in our love rather than that which gives 
Our love its life. Not anything which lives, 

Or is, lives or is all for us. For all. 


117 


All things are, in wise ways. No funeral 
Passes The Healer, who endures to bless 
From skies above earth-withering hopelesness; 

As it is writ even by a spirit plume. 

For time and life beyond it to illume. 

“Woman, why weepest thou?” Love’s anguish cry 
Quivers, from birth imposed, to Calvary : 

“He is not dead, but arisen!” Life’s Angel said; 
And with lone comfort we are comforted. 

For Life is Spirit — nutrient to compete 
Through monad up to soul; e’en in ghost of wheat 

Self -like evolving, until there inures 

The bloom of God from time’s brief sepultures, 

So that it Shines to sentience more and more, 

Life creeping-born Inherits Wings to Soar. 


But, ah, the loneliness of loss 

Will cling to us through all the years; 
The bridge of love that spans our tears 
Will many heart-aches be across! 


118 


Stronger Than Death 

When all thy days are numbered, and no room 
Is left for any more, not even one, 

And from the threshold not again thy feet 
Into the sun 

Shall bear thee, and the light upon thy face 
Is quenched in utter darkness, and thy voice 

Is but a memory within the heart 
That could rejoice 

With thine in days whereof the blessed hours 
Like flower bearing nymphs, with joy anear 

Crowned us; wherever then thy waiting soul 
Shall, bright, appear, 

Not anything with strength of permanence 

Shall sunder and shall keep thee, love, from 
me — 

Not indolent, mute Time, not heaven’s high dome, 
Nor the deep sea 

That severs wide the lands, not fate unknown. 
Beyond the ken of man, not even God 

Will sunder us for long; for by the spot 
Thy feet have trod 


119 


In spirit, which they soul ere mine may know 
Responding to the knowledge of thy pray’r 
And yearning by the mighty strength of mine, 
I shall be there. 


120 


Ultra Astra 

As soft and slow 
The sunset’s glow 

Fades from the sky, 

In deepening shade 
Surely betrayed 
To mystery, 

Remoter than this world thought reaches far 
And hangs upon our star. 

Near things grow dim, 

Until the rim 
Of sky is lost 
To sense’s ken, 

And therefore then 
Earth’s uttermost; 

Till naught remains of all the sun revealed 
That now is unconcealed. 

So when our last 
Of eves goes past 

Beneath earth’s sky, 

As starward yet 
Our gaze is set. 

And wistfully, 

Through darkness, may our souls surely invite 
Supernal life and light. 


Legend of God, 

Through Race-Line to Earth-Peace 

Briton, Teuton, North American, 
Blood-kin of the mightiest clan 
Ever, since the world began; 

One through racial lineage. 

One through psychic heritage, 

One through what our wills engage 

For the betterment of man, 

Leading of the world the van — 
Briton, Teuton, North American — 

Conscious or unconsciously 
Has our blood surged hot to be 
Keenest wine of Liberty: 

Even when we saw it not 
Instantly, as when we fought, 

Ours was still the kindred thought; 

And the differing nation knew 
If our banners trining blew, 

The almighty residue. 

While our hands were clasped to stay, 
As since latest yesterday, 

Naught could hinder or dismay 


122 


Us, who, foreheads to the sun 
Met our destinies as one, 

Race-impelled to unison; 

Blood-kin of the mightiest clan 
Ever, since the world began— 

Briton, Teuton, North American! 

December 29, 1900. 

Bjorne’s Notes. 

Two illustrations herein are by the late Ray- 
mond F. Barnes, the magnolia and Great Falls of the 
Potomac, from his fine water color. That of Felice is 
from an original by Senor Figuerao, of Mexico; and Sun- 
shine is from a home photograph. That of the Earth 
Dwarf is by Apeles Mestres, of Spain, and the others by 
the author, with the picture anagram of his name, on the 
cover — his photograph is recent from The Star Artist. 
Heimlich, is perhaps home-like. Edith Alice Townsend 
Barnes, the Magnolia of the poem, could not redeem with 
gifted pencil or brush her love offering to illustrate: 

Yestre’en she died, they said; but we 
Knew she was married, maidenly. 

To prince Celestin Opulentz. 

Sky-trip-ward she sent, artist sense 
Last words, “/ hope that Pop unit write /”* 

Slowly I caught her meaning bright — 

She wished to aid with brush my pen 
In loving cheer — that might have been. — 

Love, patience, God, the triune dole: 

Comfort of soul is of the soul. — 

Well, Some day, from her Heaven Home 
She, Sunshine, and FelIce, may come, 
Hand-locked together — and joy-stop 
The grip on that grim throat of “Pop.” 

Webster Street, 713, City, Sunday Midnight, Oct. 29, 1916. 

*A verifiable alphabetic automatic message. 


PICTURE OF LIFE 



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Contents 


Page. 

Foreword 3 

Introit — Woman 8 

Legend of Happiness 9 

Felice 9 

Robins 11 

Tibi Dulci Meae 15 

Refrain 16 

Magnolia Grandiflora 18 

Trilogy of Summer 20 

Midday 20 

The Tempest 22 

The Rainbow 23 

Whippoorwill 25 

Legend of the Adirondacks 27 

Eagles 34 

A Legend of Evolution 35 

Ten Minutes More 39 

Cloistral with Nature 40 

The Seers 43 

A Legend of Homes 45 

“Co’ Bossie” . 47 

The Legend of Undine 49 

Good-Bye 52 

Legend of Abner’s 53 

A Night Off 57 

Legend of Therese 59 

Wave and Shore 62 

Legend of the Potomac 64 

Kisses 67 

Legend of the Elysian Fields 68 


Page. 

Love’s Psychophone 71 

Legend Trans Vista 73 

Over There 76 

High Finance 78 

Ratiocination 79 

Legend of Love 81 

Auchyses to Venus 83 

Old China 85 

Legend of Heaven 86 

Like a Dream 88 

Acrostic 89 

Mary 90 

Cradle Song 91 

Legend of America 92 

Emancipation 94 

Bartholdi Statue 95 

Legend of Gettysburg 97 

The Soldier’s Wife 100 

Twilight in Camp 102 

Legend of Arlington 103 

The Last Watch 105 

Legends of Time 107 

Tomorrow 107 

Morning . . 108 

Home Made Ghosts 109 

Taps — The Blue and the Gray 110 

Sunset at Sea 110 

The Legends of Nirvana Ill 

Thanatos Ill 

Rest 112 

Dirge of World Winds 114 

Requiem 116 

Stronger than Death 118 

Ultra Astra 120 

Legend of God 121 

Through Race-Line to Earth-Peace 121 

Final Note 122 





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